


Futile

by TomAyto10



Series: Indulgence, really.... [5]
Category: Hajime no Ippo | Fighting Spirit
Genre: Boxing, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm, Pining, videos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 05:19:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6316201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomAyto10/pseuds/TomAyto10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s odd, weird, strange even, to say the least, to be aware that he spends some of his nights jacking off to a boxing match.</p>
<p>Sendo pursues that which is futile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Futile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UD98](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UD98/gifts).



It’s not the first time it’s happened, and he knows it won’t be the last.

He should feel some shame, some guilt perhaps, but he can’t find it in himself to care about anything beyond his temporary goal.

It’s odd, weird, strange even, to say the least, to be aware that he spends some of his nights jacking off to a boxing match. 

Yet, here he is pushing the cassette tape into the VCR, bathing his dark room with unnatural luminescent lights. The TV is turned down low, enough that the normally loud roar of the crowd is a little more than muted static, and Sendo, his fingers already twitching from the heat surging through his veins, sits in closer, crossed legged and prepared.

It began as an accident. He was horny one night, nothing strange for a nineteen year old, and he had a match playing on the TV. He thought he would multitask, get rid of his bidding erection while still watching the fight. 

He didn’t realize, till later, when he was spilling into his hand, that it was because of the fight that he was hard. 

He had always had a slight obsession with Ippo’s fights, but this really was something else.

The images flash on the screen and Sendo doesn’t need to look at them to know what's happening, has seen them enough times that he’s memorized every shape and color. He looks anyway, his mind focusing on Ippo coming up into the ring, looking slick and wired for a fight. He watches as Ippo moves his fist forward in a respectful gesture only to have it flung away as his Thai opponent rushed forward and attacked.

The fire is building high in his body, he can feel weight and heat press against his boxers.

Sendo sighs and plucks at his shorts, easily pulling his cock loose from the cloth and into his grip.

He was there, at this fight, sitting in the north wing waiting for Ippo to spot him and react. He didn't, much to Sendo’s disappointment, but by that time he wasn’t complaining, too busy with being hot from the way Ippo had annihilated his opponent with the Dempsey. 

_ Annihilated. _

When the footage had come in, it was only a matter of time.

Sendo's breath is starting to hitch up, his fingers trailing lightly over smooth skin, feathery touches that doesn’t do anything for the pressure now building. The ache at the base of his spine only grows, he feels light licks of fuzzy heat at the back of his knees, arousal coming to surround his senses in pleasure.

Ippo opens with a one-two combination that has his toes curling and his hand gripping tighter.

_ He looks so good _ , Sendo thinks, and a groan slips from his mouth. He looks at how muscles shift under slick skin, and though the video is grainy, pixilated, his imagination is good. He makes up with that.

He’s seen this footage so many times, knows every second of it. It’s engraved into his memory like a hot iron.

“Shit,” He curses, his hand moving into a higher pace.

The way Ippo moves is almost sensual, gliding across the mat in a way that he doesn't manage in real life. His footing is sure, his punches confident, the power unwinding, leaving the crowd and Sendo himself gasping at the shockwaves.

Sendo leans forward, planting a hand on his floor, resting his weight on it, knees spread and burdened in the new stance, his movements firm and hard over his flushed stiff cock.

He's chasing the sharp edge of pleasure that runs from him, his eyes not leaving the hazy figure of Ippo fighting on the screen. 

Ippo slams into his opponent's liver and Sendo gasps out, feeling the hit and reeling from the memory. He remembers those hits, the bruises that were left from the brutal impact of Ippo's touch. 

He wants it again, the touch, the punches. He thinks of Ippo here, soft grey eyes glowing in the wash of the TV.

“Fuck,” He says, a wet desperate word pulled out of him. 

He thinks of Ippo sliding his hand around his waist, of his bulk weighing heavily over his shoulders and back. Sendo hisses hard through his teeth, his hand stopping its mad pace as he savors the thought.

Ippo's lips against the back of his neck, breath even hotter than his over stimulated skin. Sendo groans, dropping his head in a bow, his eyes blinking at how his cock glistens in the light from the fight playing, swollen red and achingly hard.

“Fuck.” His breathing is ragged, turning into pants, and he closes his eyes, begins moving back to his fantasies. He imagines Ippo drifting his hands over his chest, playing and squeezing the muscles there, fingers brushing over his nipples, pinching and pulling.

His planted hand fists the carpet, his hips twitching.

Then,  _ teeth _ , god, what if Ippo scrapes his teeth over the back of his neck, bites down on the knob at the top of his spine...

Sendo chokes, his whole body shocked with electric pleasure up his spine, whiplash strong and sharp. He desperately wants to grind down on something, rut against something hot and hard, lose himself in riding.

Something like Ippo’s cock, heavy and thick, pushing up to slide along his ass. He wants Ippo’s hands to fall to his hips, pull him in until they're flush together, skin hot and sliding. He wants Ippo to bite at his shoulder, to moan in his ear.

God, he wants Ippo inside him, to fill him, stretching him wide and open. He wants to clamp down and writhe on his cock.

Sendo feels a surge grow impossibly high, feels like he's climbing a trembling, shaking mountain, being dragged to the peak by his hand’s stuttered rhythm over himself, by his thoughts shattering apart as they focus on bright grey eyes, on strong arms and how they move when they attack.

His body is breaking apart, his mouth hanging open, hips jerking as he fucks into his hand. He can’t catch his breath, can’t feel anything but the pleasure swelling higher and higher in his veins, the threat,  _ the promise _ of release so close that Sendo can taste it in the shadows at the back of his throat. He feels it building in his gut, rolling in tremendous waves as wild as the sea. 

There is a faint noise from the TV and he looks up, knows the noise means that Ippo is starting the Dempsey. He can hear the announcer’s shock and awe, and Sendo remembers how the sight had made his blood boil with battle lust, with a clear envious admiration, with a wanting so strong that he jacked off to the memory of Ippo delivering blow after blow to his opponent's body for weeks, fueled savage wet dreams of fighting him, of fucking him on the same mat, and rising to fight again. Ippo is the only one that can give him what he wants, what he needs.

“ _ Yes _ ...” He hisses low, the though his hand was pumping frantically before,  _ now _ he moves with the telegraphed sway of Ippo’s body, his fingers tight as the hard glide down to the base, only to come up and slip skin over his leaking head.

The muted smack, smack of the hits reverberates through his body, leaves him breathless at the memory of those hits on him, the pain of knuckles digging into his ribs.

He wants Makunouchi. He wants him here now, pushing him to lay prone on the floor, hovering over him, monstrous strength holding him down, pounding into him, moaning his name. 

He can't look away from the television, he watches the beautiful movement of Ippo's hard earned, well trained body, the elegance of the punch, the power emanating from him.

It's in the middle of watching this that Sendo's control cracks and then he's blinded by hot white, as if he’s looking up into the stadium lights when he enters the pro ring. His body stills into tenseness, anticipation written in every line of his body before it’s all simultaneous movements of jerky uncontrolled shuddering, hips spasming and arm crumbling, dropping him face first onto his floor as climax takes him.

He sobs out a name, dark and low from the blossoming heat in his chest, whimpering as pleasure wrings him, sensations ebb and flow through him without mercy. His figure is helpless and shaking, heat filling and leaving him weak in its thunderous wake before spilling hot into his hand.

He lays there for a moment, tingling and aching. Good.

He groans and rolls onto his back. The hushed crowd roars and Sendo looks up.

Even upside down, he can understand the victory pose Ippo makes, winning his comeback fight. 

Sendo feels his heart swell. Ippo is dazzling, beautiful and the satisfaction that thrummed through him a second ago flees, leaving only familiar fatigue and helpless wanting.

It's bitter, pointless.

_ Futile. _

He knows that he'll do this again, maybe tomorrow night, knows he’ll curl his hand over himself and wish he was with someone else. 

Sendo stares at the ceiling, unable to look at the smiling, untouchable Ippo.

“Fuck.” He curses again, this time absent of heat, just laced with frustration.

He hates this kind of fight, one where he can't win no matter what he tries. It’s pointless for him to try and fight.

Sendo covers his eyes with his arm, shutting away the white snow of the film that illuminates how fucking far gone he is and he tries to cave to sleep, to dreams where he can touch and hold and never feel the bitter taste of futile wanting.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk shipping to me @DipucXOXO


End file.
